


Dazed and Confused

by Pickled



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, No Angst, Post-Canon, post-adwd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickled/pseuds/Pickled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post LSH, Jaime and Brienne travel together. Strange encounters and even stranger feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to ikkiM for beta-reading (repeatedly), and not blocking me when I neurotically spammed her via email. Without her help this would have been an incoherent mess. /flowers :)

Brienne started a fire with what little wood they had and settled next to it bundled in furs. A few sips of wine warmed her insides but soured her tongue.

“Horse piss,” Jaime had named it. “Of mature vintage . . . which bodes ill for horse piss. I‘m something of an expert, you may recall.”

His capacity to make light of his darkest moments still startled her, and here, in the black solitude of the cave, the mere memory gave rise to a nervous chuckle. The sound frightened their horses.

Before long her fire crackled and flared high, illuminating a recess where a previous traveller had piled straw and wood.

 _Jaime need not have left to find wood at all_ , she thought.

 

* * * * *

The night was colder than a witch’s tit, just like the night before and the one before that, and countless others Jaime would sooner forget. He was bored of lying awake to the sound of Brienne’s big teeth chattering, wondering if he should climb under her blankets to hold onto her shivering bulk so that they might both sleep warm. It might be worth the gelding she would give him when she woke, but until he had decided, and while still in possession of his testicles, he would not rest till he had gathered more firewood with one hand than any other man would manage with two.

The woods were eerily silent but for the occasional raven’s call, and the ground obscured by snow, but even so he fared well enough and soon his arms were full. Spying a dead tree that had fallen, dried out and perfect for burning, he decided to drag a branch back to the cave for the wench to break up; after all, she was always happier when there was something for her to hit.

He used his bodyweight to snap off a limb, and had just settled on a way to return all he had gathered to the cave when he sensed movement in the shadows nearby. He watched as a huge grey shape slinked forward into the moonlight and fixed him with fearless golden eyes.

A direwolf.

Arya Stark’s wolf, he was sure of it; queen of the large pack that had terrorised the Riverlands for many moons. It stood tall, motionless but for hackles bristling and the quiver of tightly coiled muscles awaiting release. Behind it, two by two, pinpricks of light came and went amongst the trees as the pack gathered, and then a howling went up all around him, the belated sounding of a hunt that had already reached its end. There was nowhere for him to run, nowhere to hide, and little point in fighting.

A raven circled. It would feast off his carcass when the wolves were finished. It flapped and looped and dived, taunting the man who could only walk while _it could fly_.

The direwolf continued to stare. _Judging me for my crimes_ , thought Jaime. _And sentencing me to death, no doubt_. _Just like a bloody Stark_. But then he remembered the boy he had pushed, and the sister he might have maimed or killed had he found her, and the twinge of anger was gone.

The wolf had lowered its head and curled its lips back over bright, pointed incisors, and Jaime found that, while he did not fear death, he was strongly disinclined to have his throat ripped out.

 _I will die with sword in hand_ he thought, and immediately the beast leapt at him snarling and the manner of his death was no longer his to choose. He was hurled backwards, hitting his head with a force that filled the night sky with spinning constellations of stars. Jaws locked around his arm and the weight of an aurochs pinned him down. And then nothing; his arm remained, his flesh still clung to bone, and when his vision had cleared he found his captor staring down at him, jaws still clamped around his forearm, a long string of slaver dangling from its mouth. He averted his eyes as a great glob fell and settled in his beard. It was hungry, yet it did not eat.

The creature sniffed, and then with a sudden movement drove its muzzle to his belly and tore, not on his innards, but on a leather pouch tied to his belt that had held at times, dried meats, berries, hunks of oat bread. It was tough eating, so it sank down on top of him, knocking the wind from his lungs.

Jaime tried to make sense of his predicament. Fortune it seemed was considering him, waiting for its scales to balance, and he suspected that one false move might lose him another body part he would prefer to keep. Moments passed and the sound of the pack faded as the lesser wolves withdrew, bored perhaps, yipping and bickering amongst themselves. His head was throbbing, and a trickling sensation told him he was lying in a shallow pool or stream of water. He could feel it soaking, ice-cold, into his clothes.

Finally the direwolf rose to sniff up and down his body, pawing and nipping, before leaning over him and hacking up scraps of leather and bile and a few choice morsels he did not care to examine too closely. It nudged his head to the side and licked what could only be blood from his scalp for a long time— _too long_. To lighten the mood he considered offering it all the gold in Casterly Rock to let him live, but a low rumble from its throat convinced him to hold his tongue. Then, as if to declare his surrender complete, it squatted over him and emptied its bladder copiously, before throwing its head back and howling, jumping away and vanishing into the darkness.

 _Well_ , he thought, shaking with cold and relief, a _t least wolf piss is warm._

He clambered unsteadily to his feet and looked around, dazed. _Where in seven hells did I drop that firewood? Brienne will be getting cold._

 

* * * * *

 

Brienne heard him long before she saw him, for he was dragging half a tree.

“Jaime,” she cried, “you were gone so long. I found wood here in the cave. You might as well have stayed.”

He dropped what he was carrying, but strangely did not reply, only seeming to sag slowly in posture until he slumped sideways against the wall.

“Delighted to hear it,” he said at last, kicking off a boot. “After all,”—the other boot followed—“I have no wish to be of _use_ to anyone.” He righted himself with a groan and moved towards the fire, weaving slightly as if drunk. “Not when the wild things of the forest are in need of a helpless plaything. Not when I have two perfectly good balls to freeze off in the snow.”

As he stepped into the light Brienne saw that he was dripping water, his face ashen and lips blue. She jumped up.

“What happened?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Grumpkins and snarks. Now help me undress wench. I have precious few fingers and all of them are frozen.”

She wasted no time, loosening laces and tugging him free of his outer garments, while he dropped breeches and smallclothes to his ankles and staggered out of them like a badly hobbled horse. She manoeuvred him to a bed of straw and blankets where he collapsed to his knees, still tangled up in his wet tunic.

“Help me,” she exclaimed as his eyes closed. “Jaime, stay awake.”

He nodded, at first in agreement and then in sleep. She hurried then, tugging this side and that until his sodden tunic was bunched up around his shoulders. As she yanked it over his head he flopped forward, landing face first into her shoulder and grunting back to wakefulness.

“Calm yourself woman,” he grumbled. “I’m a man, not a quintain.”

“Sit up straight then.” He was tipping over as she tried to free his arms from his sleeves. “You’re more hindrance than help.”

“Those are fine words to use on a cripple, my lady.”

“I don’t mean to give offense— _gods_ , you stink. What is that foul smell?”

“Direwolf vomit. And piss.”

“Of course it is.”

“Wolves . . . attacked me.”

“And tried to drown you, I suppose.”

“Yes . . . No.” He winced. “ _Wench_. My head hurts.”

With his tunic finally cast aside, she ran her fingers over his scalp and found the injury, still bleeding slightly. “Sit up while I clean it,” she ordered. “This explains your scattered wits. A blow to the head can cause confusion, and vomiting and . . .” she glanced downwards, “loss of control. Of _oneself_.”

“I did _not_ —“

“—there’s no shame in it. It has happened to many a better man.”

“Many? There are _no_ better men!” Jaime growled, trying to sit straight.

“And so you boast while smelling like an army latrine.”

He raised his head at that, and smiled drowsily. “You’ll have to wash my clothes,” he told her. “And you’ll have to wash _me_.”

“Wash yourself. I’m not your nursemaid.”

“You’ve done it before, wench.” He gave her a sly look. “Rather well, as I recall.”

She did not meet his eye. “You recall nothing. I did what was needed and no more. And my name is Brienne.”

He chuckled slightly, but then with another groan, closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder again. “Miserable beast of a woman,” she heard him whisper, each word sounded out slowly, with his lips almost imperceptibly brushing her neck. She felt his body relax and grow heavy as sleep took him.

“Hopeless fool of a man,” she whispered in return.

She held him in the heat of the fire and wondered how it could be that such harsh words between them had lost all their sting, and seemed instead to conceal something, like a cautious exchange of secrets, if she could only make them out. And she wondered how it had come to this, that once again _she_ , the ugliest maid in the Seven Kingdoms, must embrace this ridiculous, beautiful, naked man in her arms. It was as if some deity found delight in taunting her.

His beard tickled her collarbone as he breathed peacefully against her, the warmth stealing its way inside her clothing to swirl around in invisible tendrils, caressing her skin. It was a strange sensation, reminiscent of something, something she had once dreamt of, before experience had trampled and kicked aside the hopes of her girlhood. It was a hint perhaps, a mere suggestion, of what it might feel like to be a woman.

_He has done this to me. Jaime._

Would he gloat and crow at her if he knew? She did not think he would be so cruel, not now.

He began to snore quietly, so she laid him down and watched as the fire bathed him with heat and light, dancing over his rugged shoulders and the hard plains of his chest, shaping a golden sculpture of his ribs and taut stomach, and flitting over the hair trailing down to where his manhood reposed in sleep. Even this was nothing she had not seen before, unworthy of her notice, of no interest whatsoever—until it twitched.

She jumped, for she had not expected it to move of its own accord, and realised she had been holding her breath.

 _He’s a god_ , she sighed.

She began to cover him and then, breathing again, caught his scent.

_No . . . Three-quarters a god. He needs a bath._

 

* * * * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his strange encounter with Nymeria, Jaime has a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to ikkiM and her superhero beta powers! :)

Jaime had been drifting in and out of sleep for a while, basking in the heat of the fire as it revived his chilled limbs. The sound of dripping water roused him first, and through half-open eyes he spied Brienne wringing out his clothes. She must have ventured outside to wash them despite the cold; her hair was wild and anointed with snowflakes. He watched her till his eyelids grew heavy and he slept once more.

He woke to the smell of something roasting on the fire; rabbit or hare perhaps. As he inhaled contentedly, the last remains of his headache eased away.

He was dozing lightly again when he heard Brienne approach.

“Jaime,” she said in a low voice, as if reluctant to wake him, “I’ve heated some water. If you’re well enough you should wash now, while it’s warm in here.” She added, more firmly, “It cannot wait longer. I will help you if needed.”

It irked him, how grim and determined she sounded, as if she was about to scale another bloody cliff to sink a galley. As if his companionship was an ordeal to her, a trial-by-combat in which she must prevail. It was time, he decided, to set her straight with a few words, the kind that usually fell with ease from his mouth when he opened it. But instead he found himself doing precisely nothing. It mattered little, for he knew that snapping at her would only serve to bolster her lackwit opinion of him, but as he lay there with his eyes firmly closed, the unsettling truth was that he could think of nothing to say.

Water sloshed in a kettle and there was a _clink_ as she set it down. The stubborn wench meant to wash him herself then, with or without his say so. There was a pause before his blankets began to move and were drawn slowly down to his waist, and then further still, as far as his hips. There must be countless ribald jests to be made at a time like this, but all of them . . . remained strangely elusive.  

He was not himself, and his head was starting to throb.

Cautiously, he cracked an eye open for just an instant to watch her soaking and squeezing out a rag, water running between her long, strong fingers. She applied it to him with all the vigour of morning dew on gossamer, not to awaken her unconscious charge no doubt. It was a kindness he decided to return, for to wake now might seem discourteous. Jaime Lannister could remember his courtesies when it suited him.

She dampened him all over his chest and shoulders and he braced himself, recalling the shared baths of childhood when Cersei had scrubbed him as a cook’s boy might scrub a blackened skillet, but when Brienne began to draw the rag across his skin the sensation was almost achingly pleasant, smooth and slow, in sweeping arcs and circles, round and around. Breathing deeply in his feigned sleep, speechless and absurd, it was almost like he was floating . . . almost as good as fighting . . . almost as good as . . .

 _Gods!_ _I’ll need to find a maester. I’ll tell him my wits spilled from my head along with the blood, and a direwolf licked them up._

He debated on how he might find someone schooled in reading, let alone _healing_ , in this accursed northern wasteland, but the wench kept distracting him, rubbing, stroking, squeezing water . . . and reeking as she did of selflessness and purity.

_Her name is Brienne. Call her Brienne, you fool._

His head was thudding steadily—strange, for he was no longer in pain. Also, it had not escaped his notice that, in attending to this _chore,_ his wench was being needlessly thorough. Still, by the old gods and the new—and the fire god and the drowned god and any other half-baked bloody god he could think of—he’d be damned if he was going to interrupt her and spoil this.

She began gently patting him with a soft cloth of some sort, and checked that he was dry with a light touch of her fingers. But then her touch strayed to somewhere she had _not_ washed; one finger on the muscle of his upper arm, trailing down the vein that ran from shoulder to elbow. Jaime was so surprised that he almost forgot he was pretending to be asleep.

His speculation on this was thrown into disarray by the rocking motion as she massaged his ribs with the wet rag. She did this for a long time. Then, again, came a touch for no practical purpose—one that felt like exploration—a single finger running lightly into the indentation below his breastbone and taking a brief but circuitous path over the contours of muscle beneath. There was no earthly reason for it, unless . . . Was the Maid of Tarth _enjoying_ herself?

Curious, Jaime moaned and squirmed a little and then stretched himself out languidly, flexing the muscles of his arms and abdomen, before settling again with a heavy sigh. He managed a snore too.

Nothing happened after that for a long time, but when she resumed he heard her fumbling with the kettle and spilling water, and it was all he could do not to smile. Next she forgot to properly wring out the rag, causing water to pool in the slight dip in his mid-section. The temptation was too great; he let loose another sigh, and the water began to trickle towards his blankets. Quickly she caught it with her hand and wiped it away. But then, with one artless flick of her fingertips just beneath his coverings, the game took a turn he had _not_ expected, laying waste to his triumph in resounding fashion, for his cock had shifted slightly, and the insistent thrumming in his head spread at once to his chest and to his groin.

 _This is not supposed to happen,_ he thought dimly. _Again._

Brienne carried on unawares, sweeping back and forth in rhythm across his belly and hips. Jaime was reduced to calming himself by picturing, in vivid detail, Grand Maester Pycelle’s bald, spotty head, and trying to decide if the old man’s robes smelled mostly of mouse droppings or mildew.

When Brienne moved away towards the fire he risked opening his eyes. She was reaching for something, her jerkin riding up slightly to expose one broad hip bone. He could not help but stare. Perhaps it was because he was a cripple and struggled with mundane tasks like climbing ladders and crossing rope-bridges, but he had a certain liking for a sturdy handhold, and he liked _this_ one more than most . . .

 _Kettleblacks._   He closed his eyes again. _Hairy Kettleblacks. Prancing Moonboy. Lancel . . . Lancel and his hair-shirt._

She returned with a second kettle of warm water. Jaime could have sworn they had only one kettle. It worried him that he did not know how many kettles they had, or from which of the seven hells all these kettles might have sprung.

There was a pause and then he heard her drinking, with one hand resting lightly on the blankets just below his hip. He tried not to think about that hand or to imagine its fierce grip on the hilt of the sword he had given her, or to notice the tiny fluctuations in its weight as she moved, and _especially_ not to consider its whereabouts, only inches away from . . .

 _Wielding a Dothraki arakh_. _Slashing at my wrist through sprays of blood. Horror and sickness and searing gut-wrenching pain._

Brienne had taken care of him, when they took his hand.

He was at the mercy of his thoughts, in this strange predicament of his own making, so when the realisation struck him he felt the full force of its blow, and there was no defence—no block or parry—that could possibly have saved him.

 _Jaime . . . You great blundering deluded fool_.

She took hold of the blankets as if about to remove them and wash his lower body, something she had done before, he knew, in Harrenhal. This time was different. Not only was he awake, but he now wanted so much more from Brienne than just a bath.

Immediately, Jaime pretended to wake up. He had never pretended to do something so fast in his life.

By the time his mummer’s farce of stretching and yawning had reached its end, Brienne had pulled the blankets up to his chin and was busily piling wood on the fire.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked as he sat up, wrapping himself in blankets.

“Yes,” he assured her, for her sake and his own. “Like the dead. But my head feels like I’ve drunk a barrelful of ale. My vision is blurred, I can see at least five of you.” _What are you saying, you half-wit?_ “An army of wenches.”

She was looking at him sceptically. “I’m the one in the middle most likely.”

He sang lamely, “Six wenches there were, in a spring-fed pool. . .”

“Stop that. I don’t need to hear you ruin that song _again_.”

“ _Ha-a-a._ ” said a loud voice.

Startled, they turned to find the intruder, a large richly plumed raven, perched on the rock wall near the cave entrance. As they watched it flapped to another higher spot from which it looked down upon them, looming in and out of sight with the wavering of the firelight.

“Another damned raven,” said Jaime, recalling his earlier encounter. He wondered if it was the same bird. “And an evil-looking brute at that. Did it frighten you?”

“No, it did not frighten me. Did it make you wet your blankets?”

“Ha-a-a-a-a,” said the raven, its beady eyes gleaming from deep in the shadows.

“Throw a rock at it,” said Jaime. “Our supplies are low, and I hear raven tastes like partridge.”

Brienne ignored him and pointed at the kettle of water. “You should finish washing before the water gets cold. I was about to wash your beard, although I think I would have woken you. I scrubbed off the worst of it from . . . above the waist.” She added hurriedly, “It could not wait. You were rancid.”

 _Rancid? Is that what I was, Brienne?_ Jaime smiled at her. He did not recall any _scrubbing_. “Pray continue,” he said. “I would hate to deprive you of entertainment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You have a hand. Use it.”

“As you wish.” He smiled wider, threw off his blankets, and watched in amusement as she turned abruptly away. He lifted the kettle. “Something is growing in this water. Leaves of some kind.”

“I made a decoction with crushed roots and bark and a few herbs. Something astringent was needed. Plain water was not sufficient.”

“These are nettle leaves, you sly witch. You expect me to wash my cock with nettles?”

“The stings are destroyed by boiling,” she assured him calmly. He started to scrub his crotch. “Although water never really boils over a campfire.”

“Hak-ak-ak,” said the raven.

The feathered devil was laughing at him, he was sure of it.

Jaime managed to finish bathing himself unscathed, and once his beard had been trimmed and he was wrapped up again in blankets, Brienne sat next to him and they ate the hare she had cooked and finished the skin of wine. The meat was dry and tough.

“It’s not often I’ve seen hare _over_ cooked on a campfire,” said Jaime. “Did you forget about it? Perhaps something else caught your attention?” He raised a brow at her.

She glared at him. “I went out into the snow and scrubbed your clothes in a stream till my fingers were frozen stiff. When I returned I skinned and butchered the hare with my fingers _still_ frozen stiff. And even so you complain about my _cooking_?”

He had no answer to that. He was behaving like a child, teasing her like this—a child almost grown and still clinging to its mother’s skirts. He looked her in the eye. “Thank you. Brienne.”

She nodded, and looked away.

A compliment might be appropriate, he thought. Complimenting women was not a social grace he’d ever needed, certainly not one he had practised, and if memory served him well, unless he chose carefully, he was more likely to discomfit Brienne than to bring her any measure of happiness. “You did well to catch a hare,” he managed.

“Hak-ak-ak-ak-ak.”

 _If I had two hands I’d wring your neck, you flying rat._ He soldiered on, “I’m impressed you found any game about in this weather.”

She was staring at him. “ _You_ caught the hare.”

He frowned. “No.”

“I don’t know how you managed it, since you usually have a pack of eager young squires to bring you your food and cook it for you.”

“I did not catch a hare.”

“I would like to believe you, but that would mean that a hare came willingly into our cave, _broke its own neck_ and died beside the fire. Not very likely now, is it?”

He stared, puzzled.

“Jaime, you have no idea what you were doing out there, do you?”

He did not doubt Brienne’s honesty, nor did he mind her dismissal of whatever he had to say on hares, or even direwolves, as the ramblings of an incompetent fool, but if she was not the hunter, and he was not the hunter—and the raven, large as it was, could not carry even _half_ such a burden—how then had they come by a hare?

Awkwardly, Brienne placed her hand on his knee and offered him a reassuring half-smile. He wondered how much wine she had drunk. “You brought it with the firewood,” she said. “You also brought back most of a small tree.”

Unthinkingly, he replied, “I didn’t think you were fond of flowers.”

She withdrew her hand. More wine than usual then, but not enough to tolerate his oafish attempts to be charming. He felt something—relief, certainly, but also . . . disappointment.

He was not faring well. It was like his first left-handed spar with Ser Ilyn.

While Brienne took a turn at bathing herself in the darkest, rearmost corner of the cave, Jaime cleaned off and sharpened the knife she had used to skin the hare. It occurred to him that he might catch a glimpse of her reflected in the burnished steel of the blade as he held it up in the firelight, if he were to _happen_ upon the perfect angle, but the notion had barely formed in his mind when their uninvited guest interfered.

“Tut-tut-tut-tut,” it scolded, fixing him with its gimlet eyes.

He threw it a scrap of hare. “Here,” he said, “stuff that in your beak. It might keep you quiet for a while.” It grasped the food in its talons, and picked at it with its beak. It seemed to be struggling as much as he had. “Maybe you’ll choke on it. Maybe you won’t peck our eyes out while we sleep.”

“Ha,” it said. “Ha-hak.” Moments later, when Brienne had returned to the fireside, it hopped from its ledge and dropped something on the ground in front of them, before landing nearby. At first Jaime thought it was returning the unpalatable hare, but a faint sheen off the object caught his eye and he reached out to pick it up.

It had once been a brooch or clasp, made of silver, misshapen and badly tarnished by the elements, whatever stones it had once held long gone and replaced with caked dirt. It was fashioned in the shape of a wolf’s head.

“House Stark,” said Brienne, wide-eyed.

With that, the raven took gracefully to the air and flew out of the cave into the night.

“I knew I mistrusted that winged-devil,” muttered Jaime. “Of all the shiny objects in the Seven Kingdoms for a bird to collect . . .”

“And bring to _us_ ,” said Brienne, completing his thought.

After that neither had much to say, and they prepared for sleep. Since Jaime was still without dry clothing, and all the blankets and furs they possessed had been piled in one spot to keep him warm, Brienne climbed under them as far away from him as she could manage.

“I’ll share my bed,” quipped Jaime, “but you must swear on your honour to keep your hands to yourself.”

Her reply, when it came, was silver-tongued as always.

“Idiot.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With huge thanks as always to ikkiM for knocking this little fixer-upper into shape. :)

Sometime later Jaime woke suddenly. All was quiet.

He rose and wrapped his nakedness in a cloak, then spent a moment building up the dwindling fire before stepping outside to relieve himself. On his return he found that his bedroll was no longer his own.

The direwolf had returned.

It lay stretched out on its belly next to a sleeping Brienne, gnawing on a bone, its large tongue licking up the soft marrow with obvious relish. Despite its contentment—and disinterest in Jaime—something in its eyes warned him that it would not be moving without a fight. There was little he could do. His sword was beside the wolf, well out of his reach, and it seemed unwise to call out to Brienne lest he startle her into sudden movement.

“ _Out_ ,” he said after a moment’s pause, gesturing towards the outside. It made no response. He repeated the word and action in a more commanding manner, still to no effect. If anything the wretched creature became even _less_ interested in him and more drawn to the occasional sounds Brienne was making as she slept. When it turned towards her Jaime almost went for his sword, consequences be damned, but it only nudged Brienne’s hand and, as if some trace of her supper lingered there, licked briefly at her fingers. Jaime waited with bated breath as it snuffled around her arm and shoulder, and reaching her face, almost daintily licked the darkened red scar that marred her cheek.

“Mmph . . .” said Brienne. She let out a long sigh. “Jaime,” she murmured in her sleep.

For a moment their mortal peril seemed a less pressing matter to Jaime than whether or not a faint smile was playing about Brienne’s parted lips. Then the glow of those unblinking golden eyes recalled him, and he looked upon his enemy. The fearsome beast’s tongue was lolling out of the side of its mouth, and as he met its eye it thumped its tail heavily at him, once, twice, and then—as he told it where he planned to shove his sword whenever he got hold of it—it rolled onto its back and writhed around, pedalling its legs and snapping at air. It was play-fighting, and worse, it was mocking him.

The fire was still low and Jaime was getting cold. He imagined how warm he would be with a wolf pelt for a cloak, and began to edge his way around until he could lie down in the narrow space between Brienne and the rock wall.

“Brienne,” he whispered. And then again, “ _Brienne_.”

She stirred. “What is it?”

“Don’t be alarmed, but—“

Her hand shot between them and gripped Oathkeeper. “What are you doing?” she hissed, taking in his proximity and state of undress. “Why are you—“

He caught hold of her sword hand, keeping it still. “The direwolf is here, on my bedroll.”

“Gods, Jaime, you _must sleep_. You’ll be better in the . . .“ A noise from behind silenced her and she turned her head to find that there was indeed a direwolf next to her, eyeing her sword warily while crunching on a bone.

“A direwolf!” she exclaimed, starting to sit up.

“As I _said_.”

“Why is it here?”

“That I do not know.”

“Is it alone? Where are the others? Where is its pack?” She looked around, as if an entire pack of wolves might be lurking in a corner.

“Far from here I hope.”

“But . . . the horses. Why are they not afraid?”

“Worn out? Past caring if they live or die? Or perhaps they think this kind of wolf only eats _people_.”

“We should kill it.” She did not sound sure.

“It will sense your intentions before you so much as raise your sword. That’s how I wound up flat on my back with a head wound. But if you care to try your luck I’ll be waiting—behind you.”

“Jaime. You were _attacked by wolves_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said. He might have gone on to say that she should have believed him when he told her, and to grumble that it seemed to be his lot in life to be mistrusted, but even in near darkness he could see heartfelt dismay in her widened eyes, and arrested by the sight, he kept his mouth shut. It felt strange to have someone show such concern for his wellbeing. Strange, but _good_.

Brienne set Oathkeeper aside and at once the wolf laid itself down, released a sigh, and closed its eyes.

Jaime then explained fully what had happened earlier that evening when the wolves had found him, how the raven had circled, calling, and the direwolf had overpowered him, only to guard him from its pack.

“And then it . . . _marked_ you,” said Brienne. “It claimed you as its own—and now has also claimed your bedroll from the look of it.”

The suggestion did not please Jaime. “Well, then your bed must become _ours_ ,” he decided, tugging at the covers, which were held firmly in place by the wolf’s bulk. “Move over wench, unless you want me to freeze to death.” Brienne cautiously shifted across to make space so that, while lying on one side and propped up on an elbow, Jaime could pull a few inches of blankets over himself. Lest she might fret about how closely they lay, he continued talking, “I believe this is Arya Stark’s wolf.” The wolf lifted its head at that and looked at him. “I first saw it at Winterfell, and it was with us on our journey back to Kings Landing until Arya got into a fight with Joffrey. She knocked the stuffing out of him and her pup bit him. It disappeared after that. I can’t remember its name. I _should_ , for the girl was always running after it shouting it at the top of her lungs. A famous name . . . a queen I think.”

“You don’t blame Arya for Joffrey, do you? She was just a child.”

“Blame her? I never paid her any mind, but if I had to guess I’d say she was a fine judge of character.” The wolf thumped its tail, and lay down once more. “Robb Stark had a strange connection with his wolf. I wonder if this creature is bound to Arya in the same way, wherever she is.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Well,” said Brienne at last, “it cannot stay here with us. Perhaps we could lure it away with food.”

“Looks to me like it has already eaten.”

“We could push it.”

“You may try. _I_ have only the one hand left. I’d sooner not squander it.”

“Well then we had best get some sleep,” she decided. “I would keep watch, but I suppose if it wanted to kill us it would have done so by now.”

As if to reassure her the wolf let out a hearty snore. She scowled.

“It’s quieter than you,” said Jaime.

“And its breath is better than yours,” she replied. She leaned over a little to admire it. “A formidable creature. Although . . . that bone . . . I believe it might be a human shin.”

Jaime grunted his agreement, and tried to make himself comfortable. “I wish you pleasant dreams,” he said, with a faint smile.

 

********

 

Restful sleep had been scarce in the countless weeks Brienne had spent travelling, but the next morning, as her awareness slipped back and forth between dreaming and waking she felt, not just revived, but uplifted to a state of near bliss. One pleasure after another seemed to nudge and beckon for her attention, some of them real, some imagined, and some of them drawn from distant memories of home. She surrendered to them all, to warmth and tranquillity, the gentle cadence of breathing in and out, the touch and embrace of a loved one, the scent of their skin. She nestled deeper and smiled, holding on lest all of it might slip away from her too soon, until at length her mind made sense of direction and contact and she knew . . . knew that the breathing, the scent, the skin . . . all of them were real, and _none_ of them were her own.

Unmoving, she opened one eye and—fearing the worst—was unsurprised by the sight that greeted her. Daylight, such as it was, had crept into the depths of their murky cavern, and helpfully revealed the golden hued expanse of Jaime’s bare chest that lay before her, against which her nose was pressed, and against which her lips had just smiled so foolishly.

The slow rise and fall of his chest calmed her somewhat. She watched it while considering her plight—and fervently thanked the gods that she was fully clothed.

Jaime lay on his back, and though she could not see, she could _feel_ that his head was turned towards her, his chin against her forehead. His shoulder had somehow become her pillow, and her arm was draped luxuriantly across his body. She was holding on to his far shoulder as if her very life depended on it. His arm was around her, his hand on her waist, and for a moment she fancied that all the heat coursing within her might be derived from that one spot where his fingers curled inside her tunic and rested against her skin. Then she chided herself. _Don’t be so stupid. He holds you only in sleep. Even now he doubtless dreams of Cersei!_ Were he to awaken before she had removed herself she did not think she could bear to look him in the eye. Still, moving was no easy matter, for the length of her body was pressed full against his side, slightly over him in fact, and while, mercifully, the cloak he had wrapped around himself remained more or less in place, worst of all by far, she had bent her leg up and over _his_ legs in an attitude that even the kindest observer would consider wanton.

She began, with painstaking care, to remove her hand, one finger at a time, from his shoulder, and then to lessen the weight of her arm till she could begin to raise it, inch by inch. Her leg she dealt with in a similar way, first by extracting her foot, which was tucked beneath his calf. She had almost escaped when she heard a sharp intake of breath and Jaime’s free arm moved downwards quickly, bringing her leg’s movement to a sudden halt.

“Easy wench. I would prefer not to start my day with your knee in my balls.” She turned to meet his eye. He was wide awake. “Good morning,” he said.

Words poured from her mouth, “I . . . I didn’t know—I was asleep. I was just trying to . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.” But his arm only held her more firmly. “W-what are you doing?”

“Protecting you. I always protect maidens when there are wolves about.”

She looked behind her. “The wolf is gone.”

He grunted, and gave a wry smile. “I’m holding onto you,” he owned. “You’re warm. Stay—and don’t apologise. This was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a very long time.” His fingers moved just a fraction, drawing a tiny circle just above her hip.

“And now . . .” Her voice had shrunk to little more than a whisper. “ _Now_ what are you doing?”

“I hardly know,” he said quietly. “Something stupid.”

It was too much. She pulled away and sat up.“Why didn’t you tell me you were awake?” she said, tugging on her boots.There was no need to hear his answer, for when she looked back at him, the faint glimmer of mischief in his eyes was enough. She left him, snatching up her cloak as she went. Once outside she walked quickly, grateful for once for her long legs, which were hampered little by the deep snow. After a while she found a sheltered spot to relieve herself. Squatting amongst the bushes, awkward and undignified, her eyes smarted with tears. She blinked them away and walked on.

When she returned Jaime was up and dressed, and readying the horses. “Come to eviscerate me with your Valyrian steel?” he asked. “Put Ned Stark’s sword to good use. Give him something to smile about in death, if not in life.”

She ignored him. “What is that?” she said, pointing to the ground near his feet.

“A pile of dead rabbits. Three of them, or two-and-a-half perhaps. There seem to be more heads than tails.”

She saw then that the direwolf had returned and was lying by the dying embers of the fire. It was alternately washing blood off its paws and chewing the rolled-up skin Jaime had been using as a pillow. She decided not to tell him. “So it’s bringing us food. That explains the hare.” She began helping him to pack up in readiness for leaving.

“Wolves share kills with their pack. The leftovers at least. It seems it means to stay with us rather than eat us.”

“You would hardly be worth eating anyway,” she looked him over coldly. “Too much muscle and not enough fat makes for dry, sinewy meat.”

Again, she saw a hint of mischief in his eyes. “You think I’m strong and lean, Brienne?”

_That was not meant to be a compliment. And call me wench, not Brienne._

“After all,” he went on, “now that you’ve had a closer look . . .”

“I was likening you to a pig,” she interrupted. “One that’s been allowed to run wild too long. Although, now that I think on it, more active animals have large, rich organs so, should food grow scarce, the direwolf will feast on your heart and liver first.”

“No need to sound so pleased about it.”

She did not answer, for she did not like the way he was looking at her; behind his amiable expression lay something else, and precisely _what_ mattered less to her than the concealment itself. Jaime often mocked her, but he was always honest, never sly.

They sat down for a comfortless meal of oatcakes and dried berries. The wolf joined them, but when Jaime offered it food it refused.

“It doesn’t like you very much,” said Brienne.

“It’s a Stark. And no one likes stale oatcakes.”

The wolf followed Brienne when she got up and began to string up the rabbits to carry along with them and cook for their supper. Tentatively, she held her hand out, and then stroked its head and scratched behind its ears. To her embarrassment it began to sniff her crotch.

“It certainly likes _you_ ,” said Jaime, with an infuriating smile.

“Shut your mouth.”

He stood up and prepared to lead his horse outside. “Perhaps it thinks you’re in heat,” he suggested, as the wolf continued sniffing persistently, even after Brienne turned away. “You _are_ unusually irritable.”

“I am not. You are unusually irrita _ting_.”

“Can’t be helped. A male always spoils for a fight around a female in heat. It’s in my nature.”

She turned abruptly to face him. “If you keep this up you’ll get a fight,” she snapped, “and it won’t be one you’re like to win.”

Incensed as she was, for a moment the intensity of his gaze unnerved her, and she thought he might be about to try his luck against her. But then he seemed to think again. She saw him blink and swallow, and he looked away.

The sound of a wolf’s howl from somewhere outside provided a timely distraction. The direwolf left them and padded to the entrance of the cave, pausing briefly to look back before it disappeared. When they followed cautiously they found it chasing through the snow after a raven, jumping and frolicking like a puppy while the raven dived and swooped around it. Then, with a good imitation of a wolf’s howl, the bird led the wolf away into the trees, emerging a few moments later, a dead animal dangling from the wolf’s mouth. They brought it back towards the cave where the wolf tore it open and the raven pecked at the entrails.

“Like old friends,” said Jaime quietly.

“The raven led the wolf to prey. I’ve heard tales of such. Ravens will feed from the remains after wolves have eaten.”

“It led the wolf to me,” Jaime realised. “To _us_.”

“Might be a different raven.”

“Hak-ak-ak-ak,” it laughed.

“It’s the same raven,” said Jaime. He looked at Brienne. “It may have been one of the maester’s birds at Winterfell. That might also explain its familiarity with the wolf, and where it came by the brooch it brought us.”

“Maybe. But it could have found it anywhere. They are attracted to shiny things.”

He sighed. “Well then, shall we be on our way?”

They set off, the raven flying ahead of them and the wolf following it.

“Caw-um! Caw-um!”

“ _Caw_ to you too,” said Jaime.

“It said _come_ , not _caw_ ,” said Brienne.

“It matters little; we are not following a bird. We started along this path yesterday, _by our own choice_.”

“Come,” the raven told them. “Come!”

Behind, where Jaime could not see, Brienne smiled.

 

********

 

They rode steadily without rest until dusk; to go further in the failing light risked injuring the horses. Good shelter was hard to find, so when they spied a rocky overhang not far ahead that would at least protect them from wind and snowfall they decided to make for it, stopping first to water the horses at a stream.

The raven had other ideas. It flapped around them in agitation, all the while calling “Come, come, come, come.” Jaime was relieving himself behind a rock when it landed on his horse’s saddle. “Come!” it cried.

“Just because you’ve learned one word, there’s no need to wear it out,” Jaime called out. “You don’t speak very well do you?” he added when he reappeared. “I hear Lord Commander Mormont kept a talking raven at Castle Black. It could speak quite clearly they say. Much better than you.”

The raven pulled something large from his saddlebag and flew off with it dangling from its talons. “Come!” it cried. At the top of the ridge they had been passing by it circled several times, before dropping the stolen object to the ground.

Jaime looked at Brienne.

“I believe that was your gold hand,” she said. _I told you ravens like shiny things._

He started walking up the hill, leading his horse by the reins. “When I catch that bird I’m going to pluck its feathers out one by one and roast it on a spit,” she heard him say.

They retrieved the golden hand from its resting place in the mud, and saw, from this new higher vantage point, a cottage tucked away in a small clearing. So much ivy covered it and so dense was the surrounding forest that it could barely be seen. The raven and the wolf were already moving that way. They followed warily.

It proved to be a ramshackle little place with crumbling daub-and-wattle walls and holes in its thatched roof. The raven ducked into one of them and disappeared. They pulled away the ivy that obscured the door and entered cautiously. The interior was a single room, thick with dust and cobwebs and almost empty, but it did not appear to have been looted. The few pieces of furniture were crudely made, a couple of chairs and a table, a bed with a lumpy straw mattress, and a chest that held some ragged peasant woman’s garb, sheets and a couple of candles. By the fireplace logs were stacked neatly but there was no sign of any cooking pots, and no other personal belongings. A rack held a few bags of flour and lentils, pouches of tea, a basket of dried herbs.

“Mulberry wine,” said Jaime, reading the label on a flagon. “Home-made.”  He tried a sip and winced. “Ill-advisedly.”

Behind the cottage was a rickety stable, just big enough to house their horses, and an overgrown garden. Nearby, Brienne learned the fate of the cottage’s owner; underneath a blanket of snow lay a stone cairn. A wreath of dried flowers had been laid on the top. She turned to find Jaime behind her, holding some turnips and carrots he’d pulled up. “Well . . .” he said soberly, “at least they won’t mind if we take these.”

They prepared to stay for the night. Before long they had candles burning and a fire crackling in the hearth, their rabbits roasting above it. They sampled more of the wine, and found that it improved after the shock of first tasting. Even Brienne managed a cupful, and their earlier squabbling was mostly forgotten.

“So,” said Jaime to the raven, which was perched above the fireplace, “for a creature composed solely of shit and feathers you’ve proved yourself a good guide, bringing us here. Why might that be? No letters to deliver?”

“You _do_ know,” said Brienne, “that you’re talking to a bird?”

“I’ve done worse things, only the gods know why.”

“Ful-uff,” said the raven.

Jaime frowned at it. “What did it say?”

“It sounded like _fall off_ ,” said Brienne.

He was looking at it strangely. “Did you fall off a tree, bird, and land on your head?” he asked quietly. He swirled the wine in his cup. “I suppose I’m not faring much better. The onetime Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, now reduced to roaming the wilderness in search of the lost children of his sworn enemies. There will be no record of _these_ deeds in the White Book. ‘Why,’ they’ll ask, ‘did he abandon it all and go off with that ill-tempered giant of a woman?’”

“For. Love,” said the raven. “For love.”

Jaime turned to it sharply and stared.

“It said _for love_ ,” said Brienne helpfully. “It was quite clear that time. It’s getting better at speaking. It says you went off with the giant . . . What? Why would it say _that_?”

Jaime turned to Brienne and stared at her instead. Her cheeks were aflame. “It reminds me of something I said once,” he said. “Something . . . only two others could have heard.”

“What did you say?”

“Something I would wish to forget.” He hesitated, still looking at Brienne, and then leaned towards the raven.   Slowly, carefully, he said, “ _The things I do_ . . .”

“ _For love_ ,” it finished. “Ha-ak-ak-ak!” It hopped off the mantel and flapped upwards to perch on the rafters above. From there it peered down at them and chanted proudly, “For love, for love, for love.”

 _Like something from a song_ , thought Brienne.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was supposed to be the last chapter but.....now the next one is the last chapter. Really. Truly. :-)
> 
> With many thanks, again, to ikkiM, who defibrillated this for me. /bow

_“For. Love,” said the raven. “For love.”…_

_Jaime turned to Brienne…Her cheeks were aflame._

“I think I need more wine for this,” said Jaime. “More wine, please.”

Brienne poured. She seemed worried, perhaps by his abnormally good manners and the unsteadiness of his hand as he held out his cup, or perhaps because her cheeks were crimson and she was expecting his mockery.

He stared at the raven. Mockery was the last thing on his mind.

“It’s only a raven,” she told him, getting up. “Its speech is nothing but nonsense and repetition.” She left him by the fire, and after a moment could be heard poking around at the rear of the cottage, probably seeking out useful supplies.

He stood and drew closer to the bird, still watching him from the rafter above, and whispered. “Answer me this, then. Are you Bran Stark?”

It stepped forward a little, into the light, inclined its head, and _winked_ at him. Then it bobbed its head up and down, its tail feathers flicking up a great cloud of dust all around it. The grey fog dispersed, and when it reappeared from the midst as if by some cheap mummers’ trick, it cackled at him.

Jaime drained his cup of wine and poured some more. He’d had a strange feeling about this raven since it first appeared, but had never imagined it might be controlled by a skinchanger. He scarcely believed in their existence. Even more improbable was that Bran Stark might be responsible—and very much alive. Jaime considered the creature before him. _He’s keeping his distance from me_. _Why, anyone would think he did not trust me_.He remembered the boy climbing at Winterfell. He’d had no fear of heights—liked to look down on the world.

“I imagine you enjoy flying, Bran,” he said quietly.

The raven stretched its wings out, as if to show off their span and the iridescent blues and purples of its plumage.

Jaime whispered, “Are you leading us to Sansa? Or Arya?”

It flicked its head from side to side. “Safe,” it answered. “Safe.”

_They are safe, but for how long?_ “Then where are you leading us?”

“N-n-north. North, north, north, north—“

“Yes, alright, stop that.” He hissed. Checking that Brienne was still occupied, he said, “And you have come to me, _of all people_ , because . . .”

The raven eyed him balefully.

Jaime sighed. He knew why. He owed no greater debt than to the boy he had believed dead, for the harm he had hoped no longer mattered.

Brienne returned to his side. “I found some salt,” she said. “And a bar of soap.”

“We need to head north,” he told her.

“Why? Because a raven said so?” She eyed his wine cup.

“Because a Lannister always pays his debts.”

The raven retreated to a dark corner out of sight, and they heard it flapping its way through a hole in the roof and out into the night.

“Why should I come with you?” she asked.

Jaime looked at her, but had no answer.

They said little as they ate their supper. Jaime did not complain that the rabbit was charred on one side because Brienne had forgotten to turn it, and Brienne did not repeat her earlier declaration that one-handed men should not chop turnips. Instead, she took a lantern outside to feed the crunchiest pieces to the horses, and stayed there to cut more logs.

Jaime could hear her working as he sat stretched out by the fire. He knew why she was out there, and it wasn’t for wood. She was hiding, courtesy of Bran Stark and his little flapping beak. He wondered how long the raven had been watching them. _I followed her for love, even the boy knew it._

Judging by the fiery blush that had assaulted Brienne’s cheeks, she had expected him to laugh at the notion. She would never believe it, and even if she did she might be wholly indifferent. He was no prize. A cripple, and worse, a Lannister. His rudeness made her scowl. His charm made her scowl more. On his one attempt to touch her she had almost lopped his head off. It appeared she thought him handsome—but he was widely considered so, and what good had it ever done him? And even though he had awakened just that morning to find her clinging to him like a limpet to a rock, seeking warmth and some small scrap of comfort, she had been asleep. Hardly significant.

Still, it had been a new and welcome experience for a man more accustomed to being shooed from a bed than trapped in one, and he had hoped it might be a sign of the wishes of that soft heart she hid so well. It had certainly taught him something of his own wishes. Chivalry would have had him prevent her leg from wriggling between his own. Instead he had wrapped his arm around her and held her close. To his surprise he had pressed a kiss to her forehead. And then, to spare her any embarrassment when she awoke, he had pretended to be asleep—he’d had plenty of practice at _that_ —and while lying there had acknowledged some simple truths. He was sick of lies, sick of excuses; Cersei, the Kingsguard, he had left all of it behind. He wanted Brienne, and not just in his bed. He loved her. Somehow he must find a way to _tell_ her.

He was not given to careful deliberation before acting, he’d been told so most of his life. But he must take care with Brienne. He had been clumsy this morning. He had hurt her. She was not Cersei, whose frequent ill-tempers could be stirred up into passion in the bedchamber and afterwards forgotten. He knew of little else—and it did not cheer him to realise that he was almost as inept at this as Brienne. He must be gentle. _Like the siege of Riverrun_ , he thought wryly, _I must breach those thick walls of hers without bloodshed_.

After a while the direwolf came and sat with him.

Jaime viewed it with suspicion. “I suppose you can talk too,” he said. “What’s your name? Out with it.”

It yawned in his face, as if he were the most boring sight in the Seven Kingdoms.

“No? Nothing to say? Not for lack of a tongue.” _Princess of the Rhoynar_ , came a sudden thought. _The warrior queen_. “Nymeria,” he said.

Now he had the wolf’s full attention. She turned to him, ears cocked, and even wagged her tail softly.

He smiled. “I knew I would remember, given time. That’s what she called you. Nymeria. And sometimes ‘bad wolf’.”

Nymeria slumped down to the floor and rolled onto her side on top of his foot, and for a moment, in his strangely domestic setting, Jaime felt almost content. But then he remembered that the cottage was not his own, the lady, who also was not his— _yet_ , was out in the snow, mulishly chopping wood, and his fireside companion was not a faithful hound but a man-eating direwolf whose considerable weight was cutting off the flow of blood to his foot. “Well . . . Nymeria,” he sighed, “I had best face the big wench. Any advice, before I go to my death?”

He heard a noise from Nymeria’s rear end, and at once she jumped up and fled to the door. The smell of sulphur and partially digested meat reached him.

“I did need some wind in my sails,” he complained as he got up, “but that was not very queenly, was it?”

They left the cottage, and Nymeria slinked off into the darkness.

Brienne had hung her lantern from the bough of an oak tree, casting a giant shadow of herself that seemed to loom over Jaime, swinging its axe at him as he approached.

“You should be resting that arm, not breaking it all over again,” he said. “It won’t be fully healed yet.”

She glanced at him, breathing hard. With seeming reluctance she set the axe down.

“That’s a lot of wood for one night.”

“Best get it inside,” she replied, starting to gather the logs.

Jaime saw something trickle over the back of her hand. “Wait,” he said, catching hold of her. She was bleeding from her finger where a large splinter had pierced the skin, but she was too numb with cold to notice it. “Let me.”

“I’ll do it,” she said, pulling free. She stepped closer to the lantern, and tended to the cut.

He moved around her, keeping his distance. “Those are thick walls you hide behind,” he said at last. _Walls I intend to breach._

She frowned slightly, still looking at her finger.

“It must get lonely in there,” he added.

She shot him a look that would have repelled most men and sent them scurrying home to their mothers.

_I am braver than most_ , thought Jaime, _and I have a big Lannister mouth to prove it._ “Did you hear the raven? It told you my reason for following you on this . . . fool’s errand. It spoke the truth.”

She looked distinctly uneasy, her cheeks beginning to redden. “It spoke nonsense. You followed me because you swore an oath.”

It was all he could do not to laugh. “Which do you think matters more to me, an oath sworn while drunk with a sword pointed at my heart, or—let me think, what was it again? Oh yes— _you_.”

He had gone too far. Brienne looked distraught. _The walls are breached, but a battering ram would have shown more tact._ Without doubt she would have left him had Nymeria not come trotting up to her, nudging against her with one side then the other, tail wagging all the while.

Jaime sighed, suddenly weary. “She knows there’s something wrong. She can smell your fear.”

Brienne looked at him like he had taken leave of his senses, but thrown off guard by his ridiculous words, she came close to a smile. _That’s it, a chink in her armour. Be a fool, make her smile._

“I am not afraid,” she said, resting back against the oak.

“You are. As am I. She knows that too.” As Nymeria moved away he stepped closer. “Do you remember what you told me, when I lost my hand?”

She shook her head.

“You said I had to _live_. Live, and fight, and take revenge.” He drew as near to her as he dared. “However much you wish— _deserve_ —to be a knight, you are still a woman. You still have a heart,” he said gently. “Don’t be afraid to live. That’s what the wolf can sense. A strange . . .” he gave a wry smile, “ _man_ -fear.”

She scoffed at that, as he had hoped.

“She may be a simple-minded beast,” he went on, “she may not have the wit to understand such an affliction, or suffer from it, but—“

At that a hefty shove from behind sent him stumbling towards Brienne, followed by another, and he was forced to catch himself against the tree trunk. He felt teeth nip his arse. He held his position, for a moment thinking that he could at least protect Brienne if Nymeria had turned on them, but she could be heard wandering off into the woods, growling and grumbling to herself. He was left face to face with Brienne who, despite her surprise, appeared to be rather amused.

“She may not know this strange _man_ -fear you speak of,” she said, observing Nymeria’s departure, “but it seems she knows when she has been insulted.”

“She sees the truth of me,” he replied, lowering his eyes for fear she might bolt. “A weak lion, missing a paw.” Looking up he caught her smiling a little at that. “But _you_ . . . I am not worthy of you. It’s not their way.”

“Not . . . _worthy_?”

He nodded slowly.

“There are few others who would have me,” she said gravely. She raised her chin up. “And of those I would refuse _all_.”

He straightened and felt for her hand, taking hold of it, clasping her cold fingers in his own. “And me . . . would you also refuse me?”

She did not answer, but she stiffened slightly as he leaned in and kissed her scarred cheek, where the skin was mottled and uneven, and her blue eyes, normally so calm, were filled with confusion.

A shriek ripped through the still forest, shrill and terrible, and they jerked apart, searching all around, peering into the darkness. The sound ceased as abruptly as it began, and silence returned but for the low wail of wind and the creak of trees. A moment after, trotting towards them, came Nymeria, head held high, bearing aloft a dead badger as her trophy. She shook it as if hoping it might rally its spirits and give her further sport, and gore flicked left and right across the snow. When it did nothing, she flung it aside. It landed—most of it—in a soft heap at their feet.

“Forgive me,” Jaime said, “but I don’t eat badger.” He turned to ask Brienne if she had ever tried badger, but she was gone; he saw her entering the cottage, lugging her sack of logs behind her. _I learned something at least,_ he thought. _Her feelings for me are far from indifferent._ He then gave Nymeria a long hard stare, but her response looked very much like a grin. “Your young mistress had the measure of you,” he told her. “You _are_ a bad wolf. A stupid flea-ridden _hell_ hound.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, sooo.....it's been a very long time since I updated this. Many reasons, mostly my fault. Apologies! 
> 
> I've had to split this "last" chapter in two due to length, but the remainder just needs a last edit and will be posted soon. 
> 
> Please note the story's rating has changed to M.
> 
> As always, huge thanks to ikkiM for beta, advice and butt-kicking/moral support as needed. :-)

********

 

Brienne was laying out her bedroll on the floor when Jaime returned. She heard him kicking snow off his boots before he entered the cottage, and the scratch of the direwolf’s claws as it followed.

“You can’t have failed to notice that we have a bed,” he said, going over to the fire to warm himself.

“There could be fleas in that mattress. If you’re partial to fleas, then it’s yours.” She placed his share of their furs and blankets on the bed and began to make it up for him. _What are you doing?_ she thought _. Are you soft in the head? Next you’ll be polishing his armour._ Abruptly she turned back to her bedroll—just as the wolf stepped onto it, shook out her damp coat and sank down heavily.

Jaime seemed to find that amusing. “We should lie down together, as we did last night,” he told her.

“Give me your bedroll. You have no need of it.”

“Hm . . .” He appeared to ponder the idea, only to shake his head. “No.”

She looked at him sharply. “No?”

He pulled off his surcoat and seated himself against the table edge, stretching his legs out. “Do you remember how warm we were last night? _I_ remember.”

Brienne tried to get to his bedroll where it lay on the floor, but Jaime placed his foot on it. She took a deep breath and said firmly, “Give it to me.”

He looked at her, and then smiled slowly.

It was a crooked smile, not to be trusted, but despite her irritation Brienne found it strangely contagious. She was forced to look away. “You’re behaving like a child,” she muttered.

“Do you even remember when you last slept in a bed?” he asked. Teasingly he added, “I’ll let you cuddle up to me again, like you did this morning. You know you want to.”

 _Don’t blush. Damn you to the seventh hell, don’t blush._ “What I _want_ is to—”

“Curse me? Kiss me?”

“Strangle you with my bare hands.”

“I would _love_ to see you try.”

Something in his tone was becoming increasingly hard for Brienne to ignore, low and soothing to her ear, but having quite the opposite effect on her pulse.

The wolf whined just then, and looked mournfully at Brienne. She rose from her resting place, slinked over to the door and started to scratch at it.

“You should calm yourself, you’re upsetting her,” said Jaime.

“Perhaps you should give _her_ a cuddle,” Brienne said.

“You _are_ getting quite flustered, are you not?” He started, quite deliberately, to unfasten his jerkin. “Feeling hot, maybe?” Two buckles. “Heart pounding?” Three. “It must be deafening to the ears of a direwolf.”

“Idiot.”

“My apologies, I see I’m making you blush,” he said, with total unconcern. “I’m more at home with sharp words than sweet ones. But then, since nothing unnerves you faster than sweet words . . .” He shrugged. “You can see why I struggle.”

She sighed. “Jaime, what are you doing?”

“You know the answer to that already.”

“I am not your plaything. For those times when you’re . . . bored.”

“Bored?”

“Yes, bored or . . . lonely.”

“Ah,” he smiled, “you think that, as a man, I must have _needs_.”

She said nothing.

“There are other ways for a man to take care of such things. Let me explain them to you—”

“ _Not_ necessary,” she interrupted, trying to ignore the sly look in his eye. “No doubt you think you’re very droll, but . . . I know you’re not serious about . . . _me_. You can’t be.”

He made an impatient sound. “Enough of this,” he said, standing suddenly to face her directly, and Brienne was reminded just how intimidating a man Ser Jaime Lannister could be when he had a mind for it. “Give me one good reason why not,” he demanded.

She could think of many reasons, none of them good; each one, if voiced aloud, no more than the wailing of a scared little girl. Jaime was right. She was afraid, and worse, she was not brave—she could _not_ believe him. And yet . . . she was tired of fighting, of being alone. And weary—the thought was sudden and bold—weary of guarding her maidenhood, for all the good it would ever do her family or Tarth.

Rarely had she felt more helpless and uncertain as, with no answer to offer him, she raised her eyes to his.

At that moment the direwolf groaned as if in the thrall of a terrible bellyache, and shouldered the door with such urgency that the wood began to split.

Brienne let her out. Shutting the door, she heard Jaime’s footfall behind her. Haltingly she pushed the bar into place, and turned to find him near, barely two steps away. He was watching her intently, as if weighing his next move or anticipating hers, but his look was unusually gentle, hesitant even. When his gaze fell to her mouth, she recalled his kissing her cheek, outside by the tree, and unthinkingly she drew her lips inwards, moistening them. He saw her. He did not smile, but her relief was short-lived, for instead he moved into her, driving her—since she stepped backwards to avoid him—to the wall behind.

“Do you still want to strangle me?” he said softly, closing the last few inches between them. “I’ll fight you, if that’s what you want.” With his maimed arm he pinned her shoulder; he glanced at it wryly. “I think you might win, but I won’t make it easy for you.”

It was a restraint she could throw off with ease, but she did not feel greatly inclined to move. He was warm, his body almost, but not quite, meeting her own. She felt his hand settle on her hip, followed by pulling and wriggling until his fingers met skin, where her thick waist flared outwards to her even broader hips.

“Perhaps I should be more careful . . . where I put my hand,” he said, still watching her closely. “I wouldn’t want to lose another one.”

She looked back at him, warily. Her mouth hung open, but she needed the air.

“No,” he went on, “I suppose I won’t lose it. I do know _exactly . . ._ where it is.”

He was touching her just as he had that morning, circling, spiralling, slow and feather-light. The memory had been a distraction all day. An annoyance. And it seemed that later, or perhaps tomorrow, she was to be even _more_ annoyed, for he had laid his hand warm and firm against her side, his fingers spread, as if to claim that spot for his own.

 _Tomorrow_ , she decided, breathing unsteadily. _I will be annoyed by this tomorrow. So, so annoyed._

In the meantime, at this very moment, there was a distinct possibility that it _thrilled_ her instead.

“I’m not interested,” she said faintly, as his touches strayed further, grew bolder, and she fought not to tremble—without success.

“Of course not,” he agreed. And his hand rose to cradle her breast.

She caught her breath sharply, and could not help but squirm as his thumb brushed over her nipple. It was traitorously firm.

He gave her a knowing look, almost a smile. “It _is_ rather cold in here.”

“Yes.” She looked towards the fire, blazing high with the logs she had cut. “It is.”

She expected him to release her, to quickly tire of such a meagre handful, but he did not, and as his fingers wandered and played, there was some part of her, low in the pit of her stomach, that stirred slowly as if waking from a long sleep. It was absurd. He meant only to shock her, and she would deny him the satisfaction, if nothing else.

She told him, “I’m still not interested,” in a tolerably even tone, but his touches grew more insistent, distracting, _tantalising_ , and she could scarcely go on. “And before you try . . .” she quavered, “to s-s-show me—” She shut her mouth, fearing what manner of sound might come out.

At first Jaime seemed barely to notice, though he was certainly watching her lips. Then he murmured, “You were saying?”

She took a breath, and resumed weakly, “Before you try to show me . . . I am not interested . . . in what’s inside your breeches either.”

Somehow, it sounded less of a rebuff than she had hoped.

He feigned horror, but to her surprise removed his hand. “No need for that,” he said. “I’m far more interested”—he felt around at her waist—“in what you’ve got inside _your_ breeches.” And slowly he pulled at her lacings.

She clutched at his hand and stared, searching in his eyes for a belated warning perhaps, for that _one good reason why not_ , until at last, with her eyes still fixed on his, she pulled away his hand—still holding her laces—until her breeches came undone.

She saw the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed slowly, then heard her breeches rustle as he opened them. He eased his hand inside her smallclothes, and without further hindrance, touched her down _there_ like she was as delicate as any maiden. “Not so cold . . . here,” he said softly.

She could only agree, for she was almost melting against his warm palm as it slid between her thighs, and she could not help but notice how easily his finger followed its path, as her body—yet again—eagerly showed him what she had been trying to conceal. She started to speak, but from her open mouth came nothing but a useless puff of air. She closed her eyes.

“Bri-e-nne,” he coaxed, a low voice against her cheek. His lips touched hers, barely, but although she did not flinch, still she was not quite able to respond. Then his hand shifted and she gasped as his finger slid _inside_ her.

Urgently, she fumbled down his other arm, feeling her way inside his sleeve to grasp his forearm. “Jaime,” she breathed, as her fingers curled firmly around his stump.

A moment passed before he spoke again, his voice unsteady. “Do you still want to fight me?” His beard brushed her jaw as he added softly, “Or is there something else that you want?”

She wanted his caresses to never, _ever_ stop.

All too soon they did stop, his hand returned to her hip, and she was glad of the wall supporting her, and for Jaime’s temple that came to rest against her own.

 _What . . . do you want?_ she asked herself.

The question was strange to her. Since the day she had left her home and her father she had wanted nothing for her own. She’d sought only to give herself over to someone else, someone worthy, to die for a cause, for one oath or another. But now?

Opening her eyes, she watched, as she had done just that morning, the rise and fall of Jaime’s chest as he breathed, but it struck her now as quickened, and shallower than it had been then. Unable to trust even her own eyes, she reached up and tucked her fingers inside his tunic, feeling the motion—and his warm, smooth skin. He stirred at the contact, and with a single look at last succeeded in shocking her—where his actions, bold as they were, had not—for she saw that his usual air of assurance had fallen away, and that as he waited for her answer, he was noticeably uneasy.

She was not alone in her fear. He had _tried_ to tell her.

Suddenly ashamed, and wishing to explain herself, she began, “I want . . .”—but eloquence was beyond her. Again she tried, “I . . . I want . . .”—but in that moment it seemed that even _words_ were beyond her.

Jaime was looking at her strangely; and little wonder.

_One more word! One!_

Blushing furiously, she summoned a mere whisper. “You.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With huge thanks as always to ikkiM for beta-services far beyond the call of duty. :-)

“I want _you_ ,” Brienne repeated, louder this time.

Jaime’s relief was plain to see, and encouragement enough. She leaned in to briefly touch her lips to his, and drew back again, braving the consequence, for good or ill.

For _good_ , it seemed, as without hesitation he kissed her, again and then again, and reeling slightly, she found herself in Jaime’s arms, his hold on her firm, his lips gentle and inviting on hers. She matched him as best she could, until to her dismay one of her crooked, _wretched_ teeth pulled on his lip and she faltered, feeling the all too familiar rush of heat to her cheeks. Still he kissed her—with a small, sharp release of breath and twitch of his mouth, and when she dared to look, she saw a delighted crinkling around his eyes. He was not put off by her inexperience; he was enjoying it.

She smiled a little herself then, till with a thoroughly unwholesome look, Jaime softly _bit_ her lip.

 _He’s trying to provoke me_ , she thought. Then came the first hint of his tongue against her own. _And it’s working._

Soon after that she forgot herself. She touched his beard, and she slipped her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. And Jaime kissed her the way she thought only _other_ women were kissed.

His right arm still held her, but under the simplest touch of his hand, her stiff, unwomanly frame seemed to yield and find shape where she could have sworn there was none, and worthy of his attention or not, there were certain parts of her body that clamoured wildly for more. With his mouth on her throat _tasting_ her, a sound came bursting from her lips that was wholly unbefitting to a lady. Jaime seemed not to care about that; even _she_ could tell that his low growl was of pleasure, and that in pulling her hard up against him, his fingers curving around the cheek of her arse, it was not chivalry that was foremost in his mind. He was quite as hot and breathless and ill-mannered as she, and when she realised with a shiver that this was akin to fighting, it became, suddenly, startlingly familiar.

She tugged at his jerkin, snaring a buckle, and while only intending to put it right, found herself stripping his clothes away from him with more haste than care. They were moving towards the bed, partly because Jaime pulled her that way, but mostly because she pushed. She removed his tunic and ran her hands over him, enjoying his hard chest and broad shoulders, and if her open admiration caused a smile to creep over his face—she caught the gleam from his perfect teeth—she ignored it, as for once he refrained from teasing her.

It was soon her own turn to smile, for she was well-attired for the cold weather, and together her woollen tunics and undershirts made a formidable barrier to Jaime’s awkward tugging, and he cursed her for a _bloody stupid over-dressed wench_ in his frustration.

Despite her amusement, for every layer that was removed she wished for two more. Bitter memories were intruding— _‘In the dark you’d be as beautiful as any other woman’,_ _‘Turn her over . . . That way you won’t need to look at her’_ — and it seemed that candlelight had never glared or firelight whipped so harshly as, with her reluctant help, Jaime gradually laid her bare.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Jaime, the candles . . . Let me blow them out.”

As she started to move away he caught her, his finger hooking over the neck of her undershirt, the last thin layer of linen beneath which she could hide. “I’ve seen it all before,” he said. “Don’t you remember?” He pulled her till she bumped up against him. “In Harrenhal, when you thought I wasn’t looking . . . _I was looking_.”

There it was again, that half-smile of his, somehow both faintly indecent and deeply persuasive—as she was starting to think he was well aware. It lingered as his finger played over her breastbone, weaving to the left and the right, where the curve of her flesh was more muscle than bosom, till, with a sudden movement, he pulled her shirt to one side, exposing her shoulder.

He leaned close. “I’ve seen you,” he told her, and his lips brushed her cheek, her jaw. “I want to see you again. _All_ of you. And this time”—he kissed her, just behind her ear—“I mean to take my time about it too.” His mouth worked its way down her neck, to pause above her collarbone, and whatever manner of kiss it was that he placed there, her knees almost buckled beneath her. Moving on, he laid a trail across her skin of the warmest reassurance she could imagine.

 _‘You’re the ugliest woman I ever seen,’_ Rorge had said.

 _That may be, Rorge,_ Brienne thought, _but you are dead. And I still live._

The rise in her spirits was considerable; it was not so hard to pull the shirt over her head and away, and at once Jaime held her, her body pressed to his. She buried her face against his shoulder and breathed him in.

After a moment he drew her down to the bed, where between them they took off the last of her clothes, yet much of her shyness remained, and as Jaime turned to kick off his boots she sought cover—only to find that he was sitting on the blankets. Not by chance, she suspected, and his sharp grin confirmed it. She pulled up her legs, beginning to cross them, but he was too fast, his knee blocking and pushing them apart as he kneeled above her. At last she gave up the fight, along with a smile, when he ruthlessly hoisted her arm from her breasts. His gaze slowly traversed her bare white skin, and his fingers followed, circling her hip, caressing the golden curls between her legs. He met her eye, biting his lip in a manner that she found oddly pleasing. He cupped her breast in his palm, and squeezed it lightly. Then he removed his hand and replaced it with his mouth.

Doubtless she should have blushed, _should_ have felt shame tingling across her chest, but there was only her own heart thudding and Jaime moving over her, his hair trailing softly behind. Slowly, languidly, his tongue circled her nipple; when he drew it into his mouth and sucked she cried aloud, and was aware at once of his silent laughter, for she felt the rush of his breath on her moistened skin. Without thought she caught him by his hair and pulled him down again. He laughed once more, and made no attempt to hide it.

The sheer pleasure of it unnerved her, but she did not yearn for the comfort of Oathkeeper’s hilt beneath her fingers; rather, she felt that relief might be found in Jaime’s breeches—it was hardly fair that they remain on his legs while she was naked. She pulled at them and was ignored, for he delighted in teasing her, and was clearly skilled at doing so even without the use of words. She persisted, yanking hard on his laces— _too_ hard. Leaning as he was on one forearm, he somehow overbalanced and came down on top of her.

He was heavier than he looked.

“ _Wench_ ,” he exclaimed. “If you want something you only have to ask.”

He raised himself up on his elbows, shifting his weight, and despite herself she arched up against him—and immediately looked away.

“No need to be shy,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s not the first time you’ve had me between your legs. At least this time I have the advantage.” He moved against her again—twice—before adding, helpfully, “Straddling me in a stream, trying to drown me . . . Sound familiar?”

She smiled slowly. “I did _not_ try to drown you. But if I had, it would be no more than you deserved.”

“You almost wrenched my bloody arm from its socket.”

“Because _you_ tried to stab me.” She let her fingers wander the dusting of hair on his chest as she remembered, and smiled once more. “You said you were chastising me.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he corrected her. “No. I said I was chastising _my wife_.”

She looked away again.

“Be my wife,” he said.

She gasped. “Jaime . . . do _not_ . . . You don’t need to—”

He interrupted, “Bring me a septon, I’ll say the damned vows.” He inhaled slowly, collecting himself, and spoke in a gentler tone. “You know what I am. But I am yours”—he looked at her, and a faint smirk came to his lips—“if it should _please_ you.”

She was gaping at him like a fool, and could not seem to stop.

Gently, he stroked her hair back from her face. He assured her—slowly, as if that might help, “I have been yours for far longer than you know.”

“But . . .” she willed herself to answer, “you know how people will speak of us. _You,_ with a . . . with a woman like me.”

He grunted. “I can hardly tell if I’m coming or going without the sound of whispering behind my back. No more can you.” He added softly, “And there _are_ no women like you.”

She frowned a little, unsure of his meaning.

He smiled wryly. “There’s only you.”

She had no answer for that, but she reached up to touch him, his cheek, his lips—that waylaid her with such impossible, bewildering words—and then she jumped as he caught her fingertip between his teeth. She could almost have giggled, could certainly have wept, so before she could succumb to either, she slid her hand around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

She was not so cautious now, nor Jaime so gentle. Each kiss seemed more hurried and insistent than the one before, and she thrilled to hear his breath come in snatches, to feel it fall hot on her skin. Her hands roamed his back, his arms, feeling his muscles flex and stretch, and she found that she no longer cared that she was big or freckled or ugly. She cared about Jaime’s hand that grasped her hip and whether it might slide between her legs. She cared when it drifted upwards, _longed_ for it to reach her breasts. And when his manhood pressed hard on her thigh and Jaime groaned—a low rumble with his mouth against hers—she cared about that.

She cared about _all_ of that.

The very instant she touched the waist of his breeches he rolled away to pull them off.

Seeing him naked—now that he desired her—she felt the pang of nerves in her belly, but then it was gone, and in its place, the low warm pull of her own desire. A pull that grew noticeably stronger the more she looked at him—for he was golden and beautiful, and so . . . well-proportioned. As he settled in her arms, she wrapped her legs over his, heard his breath catch as her hips rolled against him, almost of their own accord. She hardly knew how her hand came to slide down his back and around his arse, but somehow she was bold enough to hold his gaze as she urged him closer still. There was a glimmer of surprise in his eyes as he sucked in a breath, before his head dropped to her shoulder. As he exhaled raggedly, she realised with some amazement that _she_ was teasing _Jaime_.

She did not smile, but she had to bite her lip.

When he raised his head again, the look he gave her made her shiver. He was watching her closely as his hand crept between her thighs, raising an eyebrow as at his lightest touch she could barely lie still or stay quiet, and in no time at all he had her gasping and restless beneath him. Then smooth and sure, his fingers were inside her, his mouth on hers, his tongue hot against her own, and if her life had depended on it she could not— _would_ not—have lain still.

She pulled away almost at once and pressed her hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating as wildly as her own. “Jaime . . .” she whispered, unsure how to ask for what she wanted.

He was remarkably quick to guess.

He shifted his body, and she felt the press of his manhood between her thighs. His eyes did not leave hers as he pushed, and there was a tight, sharp pain. He stopped when she flinched, but she only reached up for him, and he kissed her again, softly. A moment later, one smooth thrust and she cried out in surprise as he filled her.

The discomfort was all but gone when he moved again, and Jaime took care not to hurt her and it was so much better than she’d hoped. And then something in the way that he was moving changed, and she began to feel . . . _more._ He looked rather pleased with himself until, in moving along with him, she somehow caused a low rumbling sound to come from his throat and his self-restraint seemed to waver. His breath was unsteady as he left hot, wet kisses down her neck, and when his lips brushed hers she saw in his eyes that he was losing himself—losing himself in _her_. That sight and—gods save her—the _feel_ of him . . .

She had thought she knew what it was to be aroused, but this was not that gentle night-time impulse, familiar of years past, now seldom felt. This was demanding, overwhelming . . . an utterly irresistible need.

His mouth found hers and he kissed her fiercely, till both of them were breathless. Hopelessly caught up in his heat and strength, soon her lips merely grazed against his stubble, drifted aimlessly on his skin. She let out a moan as she succumbed completely, her wits deserting her. Clutching his shoulders and gasping, she knew only the push and pull of his body with hers, Jaime wanting her, taking her, over and over again, till at last, exhausted, she found release.

She held onto him tightly still, and after only a moment felt his muscles tensing hard and then trembling as he thrust into her his last few times. He kissed her again before his head sank heavily to her shoulder.

She liked that sound, his panting. The feel of his ribs heaving against her, slick with sweat. The sense that she was no longer alone, nor her future so bleak.

When she could bring herself to move, she turned her head and pressed her lips to his temple. She felt the thud of his pulse.

“I forgot,” she whispered. “To give you an answer.”

He opened one eye to look at her.

“I accept.”

 

********

 

The creaking sound was getting louder, harder to ignore, but Jaime couldn’t quite place it. He raised his head, squinting at nothing in particular, until he was fully awake. _Yes_ , he determined at last. _It is morning._

The noise stopped, and he sank back down, puffing Brienne’s hair from his face. Surveying it, he decided that it was more dishevelled than he’d ever seen it, and remembered with a certain satisfaction that he was to blame. Like yesterday morning, she was snuggled into his embrace, her head resting on his upper arm, but this time he was free to turn towards her and to touch her, without pretence or secrecy. He raised his hand from her back and brought it up to lightly trace the freckles on her shoulder with his finger. A simple act, the kind that most would take for granted.

His arm was going numb, but he didn’t care.

Curled in on herself in sleep she seemed small and girlish for once, a reminder that, while he might never have to fight on her behalf, she had a gentle heart, and now it was his to protect. To that end, there was nothing he would not do.

True, she was no beauty, but she held him captive just the same. Monsters might knock teeth from her mouth and mangle her cheek, but the flaws they left behind spoke volumes; she was stupidly brave, loyal beyond reason, and when it came to honour, by all that was holy . . . she was bloody _pig-headed_. Little did she know it, but she had taught him by example, shamed him, and rekindled his desire to be a better man, to—

She moaned sleepily, and let out a long sigh.

. . . to be a better man, to choose his own path, and—

Her lips had parted enticingly when she sighed; they were wide and plump and red. Her teeth . . . there was no denying they were crooked—his horse might have straighter—but Brienne’s . . . they had brought a fitting end to Vargo Hoat, and to this day every glimpse of them warmed his heart, even restored a little more of his faith in the gods. As well as that, a few hours past in passion they’d left their mark on Jaime’s shoulder.

At the memory, his cock stirred against her. Awkwardly, he edged away till he recalled there was no need.

His movement had disturbed the blankets; without pause he disturbed them further to reveal her breasts, the delicate little curves she hid beneath her armour. He had become well acquainted with them, with his fingers and his mouth, and had learned besides that Brienne—if only she knew it—was everything womanly under his touch. Against them now her big hand clutched his stump. The warmth of her permeated his ravaged skin and for a moment he imagined it might grow him a new hand, with new fingers he’d clasp between hers.

He was not that lucky, not quite. But fortune had favoured him last night, when his impulsive actions had swayed her more than any of his carefully considered words, and at last she had admitted her feelings. Red-faced and stuttering, she had offered him three honest words, and to Jaime they had felt like the remedy to a lifetime of silver-tongued lies.

He winced as he shifted on the lumpy mattress. Brienne’s passion had surprised him, not just once, but twice more as they’d lain together in the night, and the muscles of his stomach were the worse for it. She was to blame for that, not him. For a moment he amused himself picturing how he might rest those strained muscles with Brienne astride him, strong and untiring, until he realised she was awake and his cock was bidding her good morning by pressing firmly on her hip. She wriggled, with a puzzled expression that faded when she met his eye.

He shrugged. “If you cut off the blood from my arm it has to go _some_ where, wench.”

The look she gave him was all bleary-eyed disapproval. “You cannot keep calling me _wench_ , not . . .” She inclined her head strangely—a wordless communication, or a crick in her neck.

“Not . . .?”

“Not . . . _now_.”

“Now?” _Now that we’ve fucked for half the night?_ “Now that”—he smiled lazily—“you are no longer the Maid of Tarth?”

“Yes,” she said, awkwardly. “You cannot call me _that_ either.”

“Tell me, do you plan to announce that to everyone you meet? But no need,” he grinned. “Your blushes will tell them for you.”

She tried not to smile, but he hauled her closer and kissed her till she did. Her mouth tasted like his, of soured mulberry wine. It didn’t matter. He kissed her till it was gone, till she was wide awake and squirming, and . . .

The creaking started up again.

Brienne grunted. “It’s the door.”

Jaime located some of his clothes on the floor and pulled them on; slow, awkward, but with more than customary patience, because Brienne was watching and pretending she wasn’t. He reached the door just as the rotten wood of its lower half gave way and burst open, admitting the hefty rear end of a sleeping direwolf.

The impact awakened her.

“Rough night?” Jaime enquired.

Nymeria skulked inside, a thundercloud with fangs, her ominous rumble threatening great evil to any who crossed her path. She crashed down by the hearth, throwing up a cloud of glowing ash.

“Nothing for us? How disappointing. I’d kill for some eggs, bacon . . .”

Nymeria glowered, her eyes bloodshot and brimming with malice. They said she would kill for a lot less than eggs or bacon.

Bran-the-raven hopped into view, just outside, and called, “Come, come, come—” till Jaime kicked the remains of the door shut with a groan.

“We had best be going then,” said Brienne, already half dressed. “Your guide is waiting for you. Impatiently from the sound of it.”

He hesitated a moment, then went to her, taking her hand. “I don’t expect you to come with me,” he said gravely. “I must do this, but it is my duty, not yours.”

“I will come,” she said at once, her blue eyes calm and resolute—until they _weren’t_ , and she lowered them to add, “for the same reason . . . that you came with me.”

When she looked up again he was staring at her like a green boy, as tongue-tied as Brienne at her most flustered. He nodded slightly. He wanted to kiss her, undress her all over again.

“ _Come!_ ” insisted Bran, from somewhere above.

Jaime glared upwards, at the holes in the roof.

“It’s just a bird,” said Brienne. “It doesn’t understand us. But . . . we can see where it leads us. Just to be sure.”

Within the hour they were ready to set off. Jaime had managed to saddle the horses by himself, and leaned against the stable doorway watching Brienne tramp around the snowy garden pulling up vegetables, stuffing any that were undamaged by frost into a sack. The sight made him smile, for the wind was blustering through her hair like his own fingers in the night, completing the ruin that he had begun.

Seeing him waiting, she brought her small harvest to the stable. As she stowed it in their saddlebags, he wandered towards her casually.

“You know,” he said, “there were fleas in that mattress.”

“I told you so,” she answered mildly.

Close behind, he confided, “I’ve an itch that needs scratching.”

She glanced at him doubtfully as he moved to her side.

He added, “Some places are hard for a cripple to reach you know.”

It was enchanting, watching comprehension dawn in her brilliant blue eyes, and discovering that—safe in the knowledge that she was not being mocked, and with no good reason to scowl at him—she had absolutely no idea how to handle his flirting. Her expression softened, and her face lit up with a tiny twitch of a smile, before she abruptly turned and left the stable, jerking her startled horse behind her.

He chuckled. “Show some pity, wench,” he said, following. “I threw myself in front of a bear for you.”

Once mounted, he noticed that she frowned and squirmed uncomfortably in her saddle. Her frown cleared, perhaps as she realised the cause of her soreness. Studiously avoiding his eye, she moved off slowly and rather stiffly.

It was ignoble of him, but he grinned.

She called over her shoulder. “Since you’re so good with wild animals you won’t mind going inside to wake the wolf. We might have need of her.”

“Ah, yes.” His grin widened.

Nymeria appeared almost immediately when he called her by name, looking a great deal less murderous after her nap. She hurtled towards him, skidded through the snow, and came to a halt just short of bowling him over. After circling rapidly three times, she fixed her eyes on his and squatted down for a hearty piss.

 _Well that ruined the effect. But no matter._ “See that, wench? I told you I’d remember her name.”

At that Brienne _did_ scowl at him. “Why don’t we try something else then? _My_ name is. . .”

“ _Wench!”_ squawked Bran, swooping down to perch nearby. He surveyed them with his beady eyes. Then he added, “ _Wife!_ ” He took flight again with a “Hak-ak-ak!”, and headed off in a northerly direction, as he went chanting, “Wench- _wife!_ Wench- _wife!_ Wench- _wife!”_

Jaime looked at Brienne. He would have flashed her a smile, but . . .

_Something warm was leaking into his boots._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments, and for continuing to read despite my terrible posting frequency! I hope you've enjoyed this last chapter. Please let me know if you did - I would love to hear from you! Constructive criticism is also very welcome. I'm here to learn! :-)


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